A Scandal In Auenland
by OneMadCookie
Summary: One particularly arrogant wizard and one jam-loving Hobbit. When two worlds collide, a new one will be born.  Fluff, comedy and adventure lie ahead! - John/Sherlock, obviously.
1. A Scandal In Auenland

A/N: Sadly, I own none of the characters. I will still make them dance!

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><p>-He wasn't sure why he kept coming back. It might be the way the hobbit's eyes lit up like one of his magical firecrackers each time he visited-<p>

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><p>At first glance, John Watson was just your average hobbit. The average height that stirred a strong protective instinct inside any humans visiting Auenland. The rural and yet well-kept clothes with numerous patches added by a skilled hand, combined in an awkward mixture of comfortable you desperately wish for during official dinners, and the kind you wear when your wardrobe has just burnt down, leaving you with nothing but the scraps stuffed into a box somewhere in the cellar. The first wrinkles were beginning to showing on his face, a product of his bright smiles and optimistic nature which never failed him, no matter how bad the weather was or how much field crops had to be reaped. You would have a hard time trying to catch a glimpse of his gloomy face – not that there weren't times like that. But first things first.<p>

What discerned him was his curiosity. A rare feat among these tiny people, and something they desperately tried to ignore whenever talking to him.

It was the blue horse in the room, as they would say.

This adventurous streak had made him, as one of the handful in the history of the Hobbits, venture out into the unknown. Leaving the endless fields and neat gardens behind him, John Watson had actually entered the land beyond the Gurgling River.

But that's another story.

During stormy nights, when everyone and their mother curls into the numerous blankets next to the warm fireplace, equipped with a mug full of steaming herbal tea, you might be surprised about the pensive, almost dark expression lingering on his face, shadows deepening the frowns on his forehead. If you are lucky – and careful enough - he might even explain what happened during those six years he had been away, and why he had to resort to a wooden cane now in order to walk properly.

No one in his village knew. Mind you, Hobbits don't ask, especially not when it's about the stingy topic of _being away_. They brushed the issue off like an obnoxious fly, and decided it must have been the folly of youth that had driven Watson out of Auenland. As if anywhere else could be better.

He was forgiven, though, since he had possessed the wisdom to return to his cozy little hut at the end of the street.

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><p>Dull.<p>

Boring.

Sherlock trudged along the nearly invisible path he had just recently discovered as he was searching for some poisonous plants necessary for the new drug he was concocting. However, his efforts and scratched hands had been completely in vain. Soon, he had to realize that his little expedition had lead him to the most peaceful place in all of Middle-Earth. Hell, even the forest of those annoying Elves had proved to be interesting than this once he had discovered that some of the leaves could serve as explosives when tangled into a green and rather muddy ball which only needed so much as a spark to go off.

This wasn't even a proper forest, he thought grumpily. Normally, trees wouldn't grow with such a distance to the other bud and definitely not this straight and orderly. Even the leafs seemed to have been trimmed until all of them had the same, oval shape.

Weeds were scarce and too much light reached the earth, making it way too easy not to stumble over any roots. The sole reason this path had been hard to find was most likely because no one bothered to follow it. The further he travelled along it, the more harmless the flora got. No more even remotely poisonous plants, less weeds and more grass.

To be brief, his mind was stagnating. He was utterly and completely bored.

Therefore, he decided to blow a few things up, just to pass the time. According to the rather vague maps of this region, there was a village just a few miles ahead. Until then, he practised levitation spells, causing the rocks to pierce the woods and leave almost symmetrical holes. He might have set fire to a few especially annoyingly symmetrical flowers, as well.

Finally (and luckily for the remaining forest) he soon reached a, unsurprisingly, clear river and an apparently forgotten bridge, judging by the shapes and state of the rotten wood stuck on the sides. He judged that is must have been at least four years until someone had been here and at that point in time, the bridge had already started disintegrating. It seemed to have been a rather provisory thing anyway. Too easy. Sherlock sighed and moved a few stones big enough to step on, forming a line across the river. Almost absent-mindedly, he jumped from stone to stone, while he took in the sight of the Hobbit village.

It really was the very definition of peaceful.

The round, flat, but surprisingly spacious houses considering the size of the owners, weren't crowded together as it would be the case in human cities. Instead, each of them had it's own, nicely-kept garden filled with a colourful mixture of herbs and flowers Sherlock filed under "Steal later". Maybe the goal of this journey could still be accomplished, Sherlock thought as he approached the first house.

Making sure his grey hat and dramatically billowing cape were all set properly, he made his, well, dramatic entry.

No one gaped in awe, though.

If you excluded the old woman staring at him with a toothless O, which, Sherlock assumed, was her default expression. Soon, even that grandma minded her own business of crossing the street to visit her neighbour again, a rather demanding task. She couldn't pay attention to whatever lunatic wandered through Auenland. "From the outside", she mumbled to herself. Seconds later, she blocked the event out.

Naturally, being the wise wizard he was, Sherlock wasn't pouting. Neither was he considering setting fire to some of the carefully painted rooftops.

The fact that a few of the gorgeous roses in the gardens suddenly withered must have been a whim of nature.

So, he carried on like a grown-up and walked down the empty street, examining the content of each fenced garden. Truly, the alchemist inside of him made a little dance of joy as he saw the sheer variety of these herbs, some of which he had never even seen. Must be some sturdy Hobbit-breeds, he mused, with the ability to just ignore the weeds around them until said disturbances shrivelled up. One herb, with star-like, white and incredibly tiny blossoms perked his interest in peculiar. The leaves were almost exactly like Königskraut, but instead of the yellow blossoms, he was confronted with white ones.

Curious, he knelt down, spread his equipment before him like it was no one's business - a small shovel, a knife, and a few weirdly shaped jars - and started to dig up one sample.

Hobbits love their gardens.

No one had told him how much.

There was a _twumph, _a sharp pain at the back of his head and then he landed face-first in the mud.

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><p>AN: This is based on the idea I developed with lovely Xiah-sensei. Check out her stuff!

Urgetofall encouraged me to publish this~ (blame or hug her xD) She's amazing as well!

It's cracky and will stay this way ;) Any kind of review would be like a ray of light to me xD


	2. A Study In Hobbits

A/N: I don't own any of the characters. Much to my displeasure.

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><p>"Molly, everything is all right now. It's just a human, believe me. They're.. just a little taller than us."<p>

His brain wasn't working properly.

"But he was destroying my _garden!_ The Königinnenkraut, on top of that! He has to be a monster! Oh my, oh my, what are we going to do..."

High-pitched voice, person is near a hysteric fit.

"My dear, let's just calm down and I'll make us all a cup of tea, all right?"

Older, more composed, but voice still slightly shaky.

"That would be just lovely, Mrs. Hudson, thank you."

Calm. Almost amused but restraining this by being overly polite.

Now, that was something to work with. Sherlock decided to have a go at it and open his eyes.

Which he immediately shut again.

"Ihrgh", he said. The following sounds indicated that someone jumped back and another spun on his heels. He absolutely detested it when he body didn't function properly, not obeying his brain as it was supposed to.

"He.. he has woken up", the younger woman whispered loud enough to inform any passerbys on the street of this blatant fact.

"I heard that." Compared to the female one, the male voice was very close to pleasant, at least it didn't have the shrill tone causing his brain to convulse inwardly. The bemusement wasn't even concealed anymore, and the following words created the image of an almost boyish grin in Sherlock's still hazy mind.

"I suppose he will talk more coherently in a bit. Want me to deal with this?"

There was something more implied in the last word. A glance must have passed from said problem to the women, who let out an apologetic sigh - until now, Sherlock hadn't thought he would ever stumble over such a paradox combination of emotions. Hobbits were indeed the epitome of weirdness.

"Thanks, John. I'll just.. tend the flowers, I guess..." steps resounded in the room, further and further away, until the sound of a wooden door being opened and closed - last time of anointment: approximately never - signalised that one nuisance was gone. Two were still remaining, though. And Sherlock needed to be alone in order to straighten the irregularities his mind palace, where there was a gaping hole now instead of a properly inwrought mosaic for the second bathroom he was building.

Just before the anxious bird of silence could finally settle down, rapid steps disturbed it. Sherlock could feel his headache getting worse.

"Oh my, where has Molly gone?"

Worse.

"Just out for a breather. First time seeing an actual human, it's not easy for her."

Excruciating.

"The poor little thing. Oh, but what about her tea? I made some -"

Unbearable.

"Everyone in this room, shut up and stop thinking petty little thoughts! Actually, stop thinking at all!"

With his eyes still closed, Sherlock rolled onto his side, curled up on what turned out to be a Hobbit-sized bed and pulled the blanket as close to his chin as his throbbing head allowed him to. He needed to regain his mental abilities or the room would burn down the next second. And the creaking hinges of that damned, not properly closed door would be the first to fall victim to the scorching flames.

After a few seconds of properly shocked and therefore thorough silence, his efforts were met with success and the pieces were soon clicking into place.

With newly regained composure - which, in his case, meant a rather contemptuous smile and hectic flickering of his green-grey eyes bright with intelligence he didn't bother to mask - he sat up and looked at the room and its inhabitants properly.

The first thing he saw was a clay mug. The blue paint had already been worn off the rim. Considering how diverse the herbs in their village were they could probably spend all day drinking tea and still find a new flavour. Belatedly, he realised that this steaming drink was being offered to him. Sceptically, he took it in both hands and sniffed, trying to make out the contents. Something for the nerves, and at least two spoonful of sugar. Just how he liked his tea. Taking a sip - he'd rather splash the content in his own face than thank the woman who made it - he leaned against the wall and took in the sight of his surroundings.

The room itself was plain. Barely decorated, apart from one horribly painted clay vase with half-withered flowers - the owner wasn't fond of such things, so they were a gift from a woman visiting from time to time, about once a week, so he kept the flowers until she replaced them. There were multiple rays of light flooding in from three round windows, each revealing the dust dancing in the air, slowly settling on every surface. Though the room was all cleaned up, its inhabitant wasn't overly obsessed with cleaning, most likely male, then.

Sherlock scrutinized the elderly woman in front of him,who was still staring silently as if waiting for permission to speak again. The searching and very awake look in her yes betrayed the wrinkles on her face and the grey streaks in her hair. About fifty years old. Her clothes were oddly patterned with huge, embroidered flowers. There was dust on her sleeves and the fading shrivels at the tips of her fingers showed that she had engaged in a futile war against the overwhelming amount of dust in this house just before he had been brought here. A kind neighbour then, who occasionally played housekeeper for the man standing beside her.

Despite it being the only logical conclusion, Sherlock doubted that the male Hobbit standing next to the housekeeper could have carried him. Still, he was intrigued by the fact that the Hobbit stood perfectly still, eyeing him with a mixture of patience and curiosity, while leaning heavily on his wooden cane. Simplicity seemed to rule in every aspect of his life, even showing in the worn handle of the otherwise roughly shaped stick. So he was the owner of this house. His ashen hair was unusually short for hobbits, almost kept in a military style. A former soldier, then? That would explain the plainness of the room. Judging by the smoothness of the cane, he had been using it for at least four years. Been outside of Auenland, which related to the bridge he had seen earlier. Four years ago.. the year in which Sauron had been finally defeated. How Sherlock had despised him and his all too obvious, blunt methods, relying on nothing but brute strength and the sheer number of orcs. Hell, the the extent of their entire intelligence could have been squeezed into a middle-sized mug. Probably without the squeezing, even. It had been appropriately ridiculous for him to die because of a tiny, golden ring being thrown into the fire of the mountain right next to the overly gigantic tower with just a single eye. Who would actually built something inefficient like that? Sherlock sighed inwardly and wished upon any of the dead stars for some mastermind to make his appearance.

Due to the concussion at the back of his head, deducting those, admittedly rather evident, facts had taken longer than usual, about five seconds, which definitely ruined his statistics. As long as that damned Elf didn't know, it would be fine. Otherwise he'd never hear the end of it.

This brief span of time was the reason no one in the room had moved by an inch. In fact, the housekeeper seemed to be frozen from shock. Just as he was about to speak and maybe complain a little bit much about the treatment he had received, the male Hobbit spoke.

"For someone who has recently broken into a garden and attempted to steal some of the most valuable herbs around here, you're pretty relaxed. Actually, how can you even have the nerve to be so rude?", a gesture towards the housekeeper indicated that something about the procedure had not been according to the rules. Sherlock frowned slightly. Ah, social interaction with all its unwritten and unspoken rules no one bothered to question. How tiresome.

"Your housekeeper offered me the cup, I took it. She didn't have to interrupt her spring cleaning because of me. Also, a Hobbit serving as a soldier is rare. Which kingdom have you sworn an oath during the final wars?"

Both of the Hobbits blinked in astonishment.

"How on Middle-Earth did you-"

"I'm not his housekeeper", the elderly woman intervened.

"Of course you're not, Mrs. Hudson", the other soothed her before picking up his question.

"How did you figure that out?"

"It was obvious", Sherlock retorted, hovering on a cloud of sheer superiority. Well, that was where he spent most time during conversations. "Just answer the question."

"Not obliged to", the Hobbit replied with a tone full of stubbornness.

"Well, it's irrelevant anyway", Sherlock waved dismissively, causing the Hobbit to grit his teeth.

"Fine. I get it. Just... just get out of here, okay?"

"You could hardly understand, with your limited mental abilities. Anyhow, I will take my leave. Feel honoured to have met the great wizard Sherlock Holmes."

A brief exchange of words and he was already driving the Hobbit up the walls. Thankfully, the hut was small.

Inwardly, Sherlock sighed, feeling something which might have resembled disappointment once, now a part of him like breathing.

Maintaining his arrogant silence – the Hobbits seemed to be deterred by it and refrained from speaking up again – he carefully got up, hunched due to the low ceiling and made his way towards the door. He remained silent on his way out, scaring the woman called Molly, who had been lingering around the garden and reminded him of a truly scared rabbit. Down the road, he spotted his equipment, carelessly neglected. He picked it up, straigthened hat and cape and, with a returning headache, left, without being able to justify the constant pout on his face.


	3. A Meeting of Fate and Frying Pans

A/N: I don't own anything, praise BBC and ACD for those brilliant characters.

Thanks for everyone who added this to their Alerts ;) Cookies for you all!

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><p>John wasted a considerable amount of time gaping at the door, eyes wide with disbelief and bewilderment. At some point, Mrs. Hudson let out a sigh or simply the breath she had held all the time, gently closed the abused door and carried on with her cleaning war.<p>

Meanwhile, John's thought were jumping inside of his head, sometimes crashing against his skull. The room, spacious as he might have been, felt constricting now and continued to shrink. He had to get out, a bit a fresh air would surely do him all the good he needed.

It didn't.

Feeling the wind pick up a notch, seeing the open fields just down the road - neither did his mental state any good.

Frankly, he was upset. Not with the wizard, they really were egocentric as well as eccentric all of the time. The age of this particular wizard baffled him, though. How old could he possibly be? Thirty at most. He supposed that even wizards would try to fill in the gaps after the final wars. Especially during such a peaceful time.

Without noticing, he had approached the herb that wizard had been so interested in. It was one of the main reasons strangers occasionally appeared in Auenland, giving him a glimpse of what the rest of the world held in store - but not for him, with his damned leg. It had started acting up after the ring had been destroyed, peace settling on everyone like a warm blanket.

Ironically, the Ringwraith had stabbed him in the shoulder, not his leg. Confronted with this mystery, the equally confusing Elfes had started making up theories about how the poison of the dagger might have slowly spread in his body, until it affected his leg. John preferred to think that the Elfes had wanted to keep their reputation instead of admitting they didn't have the answer to the question which John's life had become.

No, John was upset with himself. His health. His utterly, devastatingly normal life. The fact that he had stopped wondering what was happening in Rohan or the other kingdoms. Basically with his whole efforts to fit into the Hobbit world again. However, having been "outside" once, his perspective had expanded, reaching further than the one of the rather short-sighted Hobbits. Nonetheless, staying there, among the heroes and humans, being a burden, had been out of the question, and now he was going to be stuck here for the rest of his life- yes, stuck. At the village he used to consider his home.

John didn't resent anyone for it. He was polite, friendly and a good listener. But he was sure the growing bitterness inside of him would sooner or later dominate his thoughts.

Still hypnotizing the seemingly innocent flower, John suddenly had an idea.

Born from despair. You might also call it extreme boredom.

Insane.

But still...

"Molly!", he called out to the house next to his.

The ever insecure woman peeked out of the front window, cheeks bright red with a mixture of panic and surprise. Sometimes it made John wonder how she had lived this long and not died from a heart attack.

"Yes, John?"

"I have a favour to ask."

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><p>Even now, stomping through the fields, John debated with himself. He had a leather bag slung around his shoulder and some cooking equipment tied to it, which was bouncing off with every hesitant step he took. It was exactly the melody he had missed. His cane kept getting tangled up in the weeds, constantly reminding him of why he wasn't suited for travelling.<p>

To hell with it.

That one wizard had been his wake up call. Deep inside John knew it would be the last fate would make, and so he had set out for - yes, for what exactly?

To see that wizard again, whose name was now irrevocably connected to the thrill of adventure. Of course, only to give him the much desired sample of the Königinnenkraut. At least that was the poor excuse he had for his conscience. The rest of his plan would hopefully come to him once he had accomplished the first part.

Mrs. Hudson, with her heart of gold, had teared up when he had told her about his plan, and, after a while, had pulled him into one of her surprisingly firm hugs, whispering:,,Good luck", into his ear.

Later, she had assembled all the required things for a long journey at the speed of light, sending him off with her warm smile, which said more than any words that he would always be welcome. You could always count on Mrs. Hudson for a surprise. John had expected some tears and a heartbreakingly emotional goodbye, whereas she simply _understood_, like she had all along. In all honesty, whenever John caught a glimpse of this facet, he imagined her being one of the companionship, brewing her favourite tea right until the gates of Mordor came into sight. She'd probably knock politely, making all the orcs feel awkward and march right towards the Mountain of Doom.

Molly had merely blinked at his request, understanding dawning on her face like a sunrise, it had lit up her features in a beautiful way. Suddenly all the parts of his personality seemed to have been shuffled and now made sense to her, helping her to understand his decision in a much deeper way than Mrs. Hudon could have. For a brief moment, John thought he saw something like regret flashing over her features, gone before he could really place it. Afterwards, she nodded and handed him the sample, properly packed for longer transport. She sent him of with one of her few smiles.

Those two smiles were the most precious gift he could possibly receive, and they made John's heart ache as he realized what he was about to leave behind once again. Even as he made his way trough the crops, hesitation heavied his steps. As if his limping leg didn't slow him down enough already.

Just like back then, John never turned around, determined to keep walking, to continue the path he had chosen for himself. One last journey, that was what he had decided, leg and cane be damned. Those herbs he was trying to deliver to that mad wizard were a poor excuse for this.

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><p>After the first miles, his feet and legs were less stiff, his steps gradually became steadier and he found a pace he could walk all day long. Probably. He wasn't keen on trying that just yet.<p>

One could never really forget how to travel, especially after a journey such as his previous one. As soon as he crossed the river - idly wondering who had been kind enough to arrange those step stones - the wind rustling high above in the trees swept his doubts away. A small smile settled on his lips, refusing to give way to his usual stoic expression. In fact, he felt truly alive for the first time in four years.

Somewhere around noon, he decided to take a break and have a snack - he couldn't deny his Hobbitness there. With his feet dangling a few inches over the ground , he settled on a tree stump, simply breathing. Closing his eyes, he allowed his thoughts to stray -

A sound somewhere to his left. John's eyes immediately snapped open and his body tensed. Still a little distant, the rustling was repeated. Alarmed, John got on his feet and gripped hilt of his sword Stich, tiptoeing towards the source, ducking his head - a rather useless act for most of the bushes hid him perfectly well, small Hobbit that he was. As he approached the group of oaks, he could make out a faint murmur coming from behind it. As he carefully snuck a peek, his mouth fell open in surprise.

"You!", he yelled, and instantly regretted his foolishness, as the tall wizard jumped to his feet, spinning around with a dramatic whirl of the coat. Somehow, he had forgotten how tall this bloke was. Gulping some much needed air, he glanced up into the most intriguing face he had ever seen, into disturbing eyes that seemed to pick apart his very soul. John tried to maintain his anger, which turned out to be nearly impossible when confronted with this wizard. That didn't mean he would give up soon, though.

"What are you doing here?"

The answer consisted of an arrogantly raised eyebrow, as the wizard regarded the small Hobbit before him calmly, who very much resembled a tiny boiling kettle.

"Conducting an important experiment. I want to see whether I can gain command over the ants of this forest just by putting a spell on the queen."

And really, as the wizard stepped aside, he revealed a few crazily dancing ants, that seemed more drunk that John's old man had ever been.

"Ants? Really? You're a wizard, for god's sake! Shouldn't you do... something that really matters?" By now John was more irritated than angry, this sight was just too exotic.

"If I recall correctly, the relevant matters had to be put on hold because of a barbaric Hobbit with a frying pan."

"Molly is very civilized. You shouldn't have tried to steal those herbs. As they say, you get what you deserve." John remembered the jar he had brought with him and decided that the wizard hadn't done anything to deserve it just yet. Maybe later.

Sherlock had an absent look an his face, staring right through him. A second later, he picked up a leaf and fiddled with it, seemingly interested by its structure.

"Actually, you could be a great help for my next experiment. I want to prove one of my theories."

"How could I possibly be of any help?" Before John could stop himself, the familiar bitterness had crept into his voice again. He cursed inwardly.

Sherlock lifted his gaze towards the blue sky shimmering through the leafs.

"You will know soon enough", he responded with the appropriate amount of mysteriousness for a wizard. "For now, care to tag along? There are some riddles I need to solve and a medical opinion is always useful."

"How did you-"

"The garden was full of herbs with a strictly medical use, nothing to eat, nor anything for tea, which is rather unusual for a Hobbit. Obviously, you have a great knowledge of herbs then, and you don't have to grow your own crops. Ergo, your profession is one that is tightly connected to presents, often in form of food. You independent Hobbits would only ask or help during a time of sickness, therefore you have to be a doctor of some kind. A soldier and a doctor."

"Amazing", John blurted out. Just like the previous deduction, this chain of thought was truly inspiring. In retrospect everyone thought that those things were quite obvious, when really, it took a lot of brain to notice all of these things and actively think about it.

For a second, Sherlock looked baffled.

"That's not what they usually say", he mumbled.

John grinned. "Oh, I can imagine that. There's this thing called privacy, a concept you don't seem to have any grasp of. What do they usually say, then?"

"Piss off." At these words, Sherlock's face was full of righteous indignation.

John laughed, and was surprised at this. God, what was it about this man that made him feel so at ease? He decided to be spontaneous and grab this straw fate was handing him.

"And sure. I'd love to tag along. Where are you headed?"

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><p>Reviews are love! (and the fuel that keeps my brain going^^) See you next chapter~<p> 


	4. Adventures in Social Skills

A warm cuddle for everyone who added this to their story alters! Where do you guys keep coming from?

Now all I need is some reviews to make this less creepy ;)

As usual, I don't own the characters.

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><p>In retrospect, following the wizard might have been a bad decision.<p>

Merely a few hours had passed and Sherlock was already growing bored again, mumbling and sometimes shouting incoherent and completely unrelated things ranging from 'blue tree bark' to 'why braids?', while occasionally waving a hand and setting fire to some absolutely innocent saplings.

John on the other hand was occupied with trying to make some sense of this blabbering wizard, his train of thought being disrupted with each smoking branch whose fire he had to put out. Eventually, he grew exasperated and angry, stopping in his tracks. It took quite some time for Sherlock to notice this, being caught up in another deduction about something John couldn't even fathom. Crossing his arms, and with a displeased frown engraved on his forehead, he stared at the grey-cladded wizard's back disapprovingly, lips thin with discontentment. Finally, the tall man turned on his heels, irritation flashing over his features. Undeterred, John started the apparently seldomly given scolding.

''Sherlock Holmes. Burning down this peaceful and perfectly innocent forest is. Not. Good. Stop it. What is going on in your head? Aren't wizards meant to do useful things? Good deeds, selfless things? Where are we even going?"

Now it was Sherlock's turn to frown at the fuming hobbit in front of him. Staring him down proved to be ineffective, even when at full height, so he decided to have mercy with this simpleton instead. What was his brain made of? Jam and sunshine, that were the only plausible options so far.

''If you had been paying _any_ attention to the path we are currently taking, you would have noticed we're heading straight north. Up there, a little village is located, if you had ever properly looked at a map you could have known that it's called Erigard. It's famous for Elves and Dwarfs occasionally showing up on some doorsteps, since all important members of society tend to move their gatherings to this place. It is a hidden, tiny and unsuspicious group of of houses, but in their cellar maze, Middle-Earth's politics are made. Pacts are forged with great care, just like that infamous ring."

The Hobbit did not show the expected expression of dumbfounded gaping in awe. Instead, his lips did something Sherlock named ''stubborn pout" and found his gaze oddly drawn to.

''For all your brilliance you have missed the fact that I have been busy keeping this rather beautiful forest intact. Besides, Erigard is known to the Hobbits, Sherlock. It's right under our noses after all, so stop lecturing me. And while you're at it, stop abusing your magic just because you're bored!" Now John genuinely resembled a boiling kettle, and Sherlock felt a smirk creep on his face, which he instantly smoothed out again. Better be diplomatic, if he wanted to avoid one of those arduous social discussions.

''I just need something to occupy my mind. If only some poisonous or carnivorous plant would grow here! This mind-numbing forest is driving me up the trees."

He continued walking again, his eyes scanning the area, always keen on finding anything of interest. Currently, nothing was even worth a second glance, so he inevitably turned his attention to the only riddle near him: The Hobbit named John, who immediately was on altert an tensed when that strange gaze dissected him again.

''Sherlock, I don't think I am in the mood to hear any of your deductions. So would you please keep them to yourself?", he mumbled grumpily, but without much hope that wizard would actually listen to him. He was right.

''So, a soldier. But why? And whom did you serve?" Sherlock walked beside John, curiousity causing him to lean closer. John stared straight ahead and ignored the fact that maybe he was blushing a little, feeling that Wizard almost breathing against his neck, blaming it on embarassment.

''That walking stick is not made in the Shire, it doesn't appear to be chosen and made with much leisure. It might not even be a perfect fit, since it is about two centimetres too short. You kept it out of sentiment then.. Judging by the structure of the wood, I'd say the tree grew somewhere near a swamp, nearly no wind. These tiny white stripes in the wood.. what are they?"

Before John had realized what Sherlock was after, his cane had already been taken from him.

''Sherlock! For God's sake, give me that stick back, I can't walk without it!"

Hi voice broke, overly strained by frustration and panic of being exposed as the cripple he felt like. This mix of emotions seemed to freeze his legs and he leaned against the nearest tree. There was no way in hell he was going to limp after Sherlock, trying grab that stick like a kitten might try to steal the wool, clumsily and way too small to reach the desired object. He narrowed his eyes and decided to simply glare Sherlock to death. Who knew, maybe some equally bored God might hear him. He sure had prayed to more than one Entity during his journey.

Sherlock's hand did some obscure gestures with such speed they seemed to blur and merge into one fluid line. Then they froze midway, and his eyebrows shot up.

''Human bones?" It somehow satisfied John to see the supposedly great wizard's eyes wide with surprise. He couldn't suppress a smug grin.

Sherlock's gaze was piercing now, his eyes an aggressive green now as he assessed John anew.

''The only place I know where such wood can be found.. It's the only possible answer... But why were you in the Dead Marshes?"

Ah, he figured it out. John felt a rush of disappointment and a new kind of worry creeping up on him, settling down at the back of his head comfortably. This intriguing man would be bored of him sooner than he could make tea, if he kept solving all the riddles regarding his person at this pace. And really, John mused, there is nothing much left if you take that one mystery away from me. I'm nothing special after all. Resignation filled his veins just like poison and his limbs felt too heavy all of sudden. He lowered his gaze, not wanting to see the moment this adventure would end at the same time Sherlock figured it out. And that he would John had no doubts. So he remained silent and let Sherlock ramble on.

''Dead Marshes is one of the few paths to Mordor.. meaning you were actually headed there", Sherlock's voice sounded incredulous, ''You must have taken _that _path, but with which intention? The only beings that ever headed up there were.. the carriers of the ring. The remains of that secret fellowship that Elf couldn't hide from me, naturally. Conclusion: You were part of that fellowship."

One does not simply walk into Mordor and remain the same. John was humble in a way that prevented him from realizing his own braveness. The sudden urge to stand up and raise his head in a proud manner astonished him just as much as Sherlock but he didn't relent. Pushing his doubts aside, he decided to enjoy this adventure as long as it would last.

''What about it?", he asked, not in an aggressive but calm manner, confusing the wizard even more. A few seconds ago that Hobbit seemed to be drowning in some kind of misery Sherlock had filed under self-pity, and within the blink of an eye he transformed into some kind of heroic hedgehog.

John Watson surely was an interesting fellow.

''Was I correct?"

''Oh yes, in every aspect. Can we move on now or are you planning to grow roots here?" With this, the Hobbit shrugged the whole topic off and extended a hand towards Sherlock.

He stared at it for longer than usually, his brain momentarily frozen.

Did the Hobbit want to hold hands with him?

''My cane", John reminded him with a patient smile. Sherlock felt a little strange when he returned the walking stick, filing the whole thing under effects of sleep deprivation.

''Let's go then", he said, flicking the collar of his cape up.

''Sherlock?"

John's voice was almost hoarse from calling the wizard's name. Two hours had passed since he had woken up, startled by the sound of a nearby branch cracking. He should have known that the wizard wouldn't keep watch properly, though he hadn't expected him to wander off this far.

Doubt kept poking him, offering him the most obvious explanation for this occurence: Sherlock had simply grown bored of him and left.

John ignored that thought each time it crossed his mind, because it might be the easiest but not the most logical conclusion. Ah, that damned wizard had worn off on him during the last three days, just as much as he had worn his nerves thin. Really, Sherlock might be a bit unskilled when it came to social niceties, but John was sure the wizard respected him enough to at least say goodbye to him.

Therefore, worry was actually what kept John's mind running in hectic circles until he felt dizzy from it. There was absolutely no trace of Sherlock.

A flash of gray caught his eyes and he stopped. Crumpled and forlorn, the cape lay on the ground.

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><p>Cliffhangers are my obsession. You should get used to them :)<p>

Reviews are, as always, loved with infinite passion! Tell me what you thought about this Chapter~


	5. Breaking The Habit

A/N: Cookie here, who still doesn't own anything of the story.

First of all: Thanks, guys, for all the Alerts and sticking with me! *warm and fuzzy hugs*

So now, sit back and enjoy the journey~

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><p>Almost hypnotized by it, John picked up the meaningful layers of wool and inspected them. Sherlock might think he was a little slow, but when times got rough, his brain worked best. It was the rush running through his veins that had always kept him going, as it did now. No traces of a fight. Not even a cracked branch. That didn't imply there was no struggle, though. John knew better than to assume all fights were carried out face-to-face.<p>

His eyes scanned the area and, admist all the conflicting traces, he found a real trail, crumbled and crushed leafes, as if someone had exerted a great force when walking – therefore, he must have been running.

Probably Sherlock had run after something, discarding his cape along the way. John hoped that had been the case, and not the other way around. Whatever could make a wizard run for his life would most likely not even give him the time to blink.

He inhaled and exhaled, calming his fluttering nerves. Considering his options didn't occur to him, as the alternative of not going after Sherlock didn't even enter his mind. The concept of leaving someone in danger behind was completely alien to him. Back at the Mountain of Doom, that sense of loyality and friendship hadn't left him, either.

Following that trail turned out easier than anticipated, once he knew what to look out for. A crushed leaf here, a bit of earth loosened and sprinkled, a footprint. Slowly he was getting the hang of it – again – and put to use what Lestrade the ranger had taught him back in the days of the fellowship.

As his pace picked up, he felt, instintively, that he was getting closer to his goal – whatever that might be. Reaching for his sword, he ducked and hid behind a bush, inching closer to what turned out to be a clearing.

"I hadn't expected you to find me this soon", a dry voice resounded over the grass, almost blown away by the strong wind. John peeked though the leafes, and saw the silhouettes of two persons, one ridiculously tall – Sherlock, probably – and the other small, hunched, and cladded in an unassuming brown.

"Are you, really? The traces you left were so obvious I thought you left them on purpose." Ah yes, that was Sherlock's voice, dripping with arrogance.

It was no use. He couldn't see more than shadows – no faces, no gestures. He didn't know what was going on, and that made him uneasy. Something hung in the air, like humid sparks, that increased his tension. He regarded his surroundings anew and was startled by the rune he discovered, a few metres next to him. Instantly, he froze, as he recognized what these, to outsiders mere scratches, might do to him. On his way to Mordor he had met Elfes who tried teaching him a bit of rune magic, as they thought it might help him along the way. Surely it would have, had he understood it. He had barely managed to grasp the concept of it, and, on top of that, had absolutely no talent for magic whatsoever. What had remained, however, was the basic understanding of dangerous-it-will-blow-you-into-pieces and the harmless let-a-pretty-flower-grow magic. And this innocent looking rune there was definitely not one of the nice sort. He glared at it, then turned his head, a tiny bit stiffer than before. The two men had not moved by an inch, and their voices were lowered too much to be audible. Was there any danger for Sherlock? The smaller man looked harmless, but then, judging people by their looks was not a mistake John would make. Dwarfs could still beat anyone one-handed if underestimated.

Finally, the man spoke up. "Prove your talent. Step into this circle and dissolve the runes. If you fail, you will die. You win and I turn myself in."

"Why should I do it?"

"Are you afraid of failing?"

"I am not afraid, that would imply that I consider failure as a possible option."

There he goes again, John thought, while his mind was working overtime to figure out what to do. If that circle was somehow connected to the one Sherlock was presented with, then, great wizard or not, he and his hat would get blown to pieces. He had no real clue how to effectively break that rune, but time was running out. It was obvious that Sherlock was tempted to prove his wit. John decided to go for it and let his instincts guide him.

Still keeping himself hidden, he hustled towards the rune.

''If I wasn't so bored, I wouldn't even consider this. Is this how you killed the other wizards?"

''They are always so arrogant. That is their greatest weakness. You should know what I'm talking about."

In one fluent movement, he lifted Sting, which was glowing softly with the power the Elves had imbued it with, and thrust it into the earth, into the middle of the (thankfully rather small) rune, disrupting the pattern. It started to glow in a dangerous red, crackling like a dying fire, and burnt itself with a rather anticlimactic tiny fire. John pulled Sting out, brushed the dirt off it and turned around to see what had happened at the scene, ready to charge in if Sherlock was in danger. Well, even more danger than he had been in before, at least.

That mysterious man had vanished and Sherlock looked so stumped it made John grin victoriously. He hadn't been noticed yet, so he decided to sneak back to their camp, absolutely not keen on hearing Sherlock's ranting about how he could have solved that rune in time. Frailty of a genius, indeed. On second thought, it was simple and ordinary foolishness. Very human and very stupid.

Only when he sat by the remains of the fire, nibbling on an apple thoughfully, he realized that he hadn't used his cane since he had woken up.

Sherlock remained very still while his mind was racing and the thoughts were crashing into each other with incredible force.

The fastest of them all made several loops around his head and was repeated countless times.

_I could have solved it. I could have solved it._

''Damn it!", he yelled and shook his fist. A strong wind tore at the tree crowns.

Then, because he wasn't one to dwell over impossibilites, he considered all the reasons as to why the nameless man and wanted criminal had disappeared. In total, there were 17 options, but a short glance around the clearing reduced them to one obvious solution.

To his right, he could spot a burnt black line through the bushed. As he approached it cautiously, he saw the remains of a forbidden rune. Ridiculous, since the forbidden ones where the only useful ones. This one appeared to be a quite intriguing mixture of a few deadlier ones. It had been a trap, Sherlock realized and he felt an unknown sensation, a cold chill running down his spine. He brushed it off, it was irrelevant.

Right in the middle of the rune, the carefully drawn sigils had been split in half. It might have been a knife, or a small sword, wielded with high precision and very close to the rune itself, therefore it had to be someone with short arms. A tiny warrior then, brave enough to stand next to this deadly rune. But the only one around this area matching these features, was... John.

John had saved him and then quietly left. As this realisation dawned upon him, the chill was replaced by something equally unknown, but much warmer, something that made him smile genuinely.

John couldn't know, but he was the first person whose information Sherlock would put into the unused box in his mind palace, reserved for "companions". He looked forward to the next surprises that Hobbit had in store for him.

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><p>So, to all you readers out here, I'm keen on hearing your opinions!<p>

Anything you liked this chapter? What could be improved? No reason to be shy :)


	6. Of Riddles and Realisations

Disclaimer: I sadly don't own anything *insert witty comment here*

A/N: Guys, you're awesome. All the alerts and reviews, they made my day and kept me going. Feedback is always loved and appreciated!

Now that most of the school's meddling with my free time is finally over (I made it, I actually graduated!), expect to get sooner updates.

Also, this chapter highlights the fluffy side of this story. I think I warned you often enough by now ;)

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><p>The kettle was boiling, filling the air with the aromatic smell of Shire Tea, whose components were kept secret. After all, it wouldn't be half as famous if the people knew that it consisted of a few grasses and flowers randomly plucked here and there.<p>

John was settled comfortably by the campfire, waiting for Sherlock to return. It wasn't his most favourite thing to do – waiting. He was more a man of action and detested having to wait for something. In this case, it was for someone, which was a little less unnerving. Still, it made him feel useless, and so he tried his best to occupy himself. And what was better than making a proper meal, tea included? The already slightly dry bread and a halved apple might not be the very definition of a meal, but as they say, the intention counted.

Even though all Sherlock deserved was a proper punch in the face.

He would save that for later.

John had priorities, after all.

A tiny smile on his lips, he poured the tea into one of his makeshift mugs he had never managed to let go of, leaned back against the dry wood, enjoying the warmth of the few gentle sun rays being filtered through the leaves of the trees. Ah, such a lovely day.

Not much later, Sherlock approached the clearing cautiously, eyeing him warily, or simply reconsidering his opinion of John.

So he found out. Well, there was no helping it, John thought, unsurprised. Sherlock _was _clever after all, despite ''people" not being his area.

''I made some tea. Care to join me?", he asked, straightforward, this time with a proper smile, because hell, he was somehow just really glad that bastard still was in one piece.

Hesitantly, and gracelessly as he had never seen the wizard before, Sherlock sat down, still staring at John as if he might erupt like a volcano any second.

John maintained his calm and friendly manner, waiting until Sherlock was ready to speak again and had recollected his composure, very much feeling like he was dealing with a wild animal. The wizard shook his head with the faintest hint of a smile on his lips, before his face returned to impassive once again. It lit a spark of hope in John, faint as it had been. There might actually be real emotions hidden behind his stony façade.

''Yes, please", the tall man finally answered the question.

John poured tea into the second cup, relishing in the tiny fog full of homely smells. It was the Shire poured into a rustic mug, he thought, as he handed it over to the silent man, the uneven wood polished from frequent use. They drank in silence, but it was a comfortable one, adding to the lovely sunshine in the most natural way.

Not the type for polite chatter or gossip, John had never found the right woman to keep him company. He wasn't a smooth talker, or a bag full of jokes just waiting to open and make you burst from laughter. Since he could remember, his girlfriends would complain about him being too quiet, too reserved, too polite, too kind.. the list of his faults seemed indefinite. Truly, eloquence was not one of his strong points.

That's why sitting with this mystical man was so.. easy. No worries about being too little or too much of anything, just.. being. His anger seemed to evaporate, the little pieces of it swept away by the butterflies lingering on the dots of sunshine.

If that wasn't a little cheesy.

John smiled.

As the shadows grew longer and the fire had burnt out, John started packing up again, leaving Sherlock lost in thought for a little longer, hoping he would not have to drag him along the way. Befitting of his childish ways it might be, but equally exhausting, seeing as he was almost twice John's size. Therefore he took his time, wrapping kettle and cups, gathering his cape and checking his sword.

Eventually, he heard the wizard jumping to his feet, suddenly bristling with energy he must have had stored somewhere inside his hat, John mused, as he watched Sherlock striding over to him, taking long steps.

''What are you waiting for, John? We have a riddle to solve!" And off he was.

''Do _we_? That would imply both parties _know _what is going on. Care to share?" John hurried after Sherlock, cursing his short legs, when suddenly, it hit him.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

Surprisingly, Sherlock came to a halt as well, turning around with a dramatically wallowing coat. Even his hat looked smug. Obviously he had been waiting for John to notice.

''My cane. I.. I forgot it and.." John's voice trailed off as he processed this new piece of information. A glorious grin took over his lips, making his eyes glow with relief, joy, and adventure.

''Hell, YES!", he exclaimed, punching the air and performing a clumsy dance of joy, before he regained his usual composure. Sitting at the camp fire, he hadn't quite trusted this newfound freedom, afraid it might have been the excitement and, if he was completely honest with himself, worry keeping him going, causing him to ignore his damned leg. Now, though, with no danger pushing him forward, he felt as if he was healed for the first time.

Sherlock looked at him, and this time, it wasn't just a hint, it was a full fledged, proper smile, reaching his eyes and making them glow with amusement and genuine glee.

''Took you long enough to notice", he said in his usual arrogant tone, but the grin stayed on his face, betraying his voice. Both men shared a look, a grin and laughed at nothing in particular.

When the silence returned, John could still feel the bubbles of laughter rushing through his veins, warming him from the inside out. He felt more alive than he had in years.

''So, what's that riddle you mentioned?", John probed, his breathing slightly sped up, one step behind Sherlock, who was completely oblivious to their height difference or had merely chosen to ignore it.

''Riddle?", Sherlock looked absent-minded once again. ''Not of import now", he muttered and continued walking.

John sighed. This was going to be a long journey.

Rinn, the little village Sherlock had finally named, turned out to be exactly as promised: Peaceful and picturesque, a tiny dot in the middle of a gigantic forest. To the left, the clearing had been widened and the logged trees had then been used to build the purely wooden huts hunched around the civic centre. The newly created space was now filled with an almost random pattern of crops and herbs, all healthy and promising a good harvest. John nodded in appreciation.

Though, he did wonder how much these villagers actually ate. At most, there were twenty small huts, none of them particularly large.

''Well observed", Sherlock said beside him with one of his half-smiles. John shrugged with a grin. ''Your insanity is merely wearing off on me", he replied and turned to the taller man.

''Wouldn't this be the perfect moment to let me in on your secret? What is your reason for coming here?"

As expected, Sherlock didn't bother answering, his face bearing a guarded expression again, while his eyes were intently scanning the area.

''Are you after that madman from earlier? Is he here?" It was just an arrow into the dark, but apparently he had hit bullseye. At least the almost imperceptible twitching of Sherlock's lips gave the truth away. Sighing, John turned around, stepping into the wizard's way, blocking it. Not efficiently, more with willpower alone. Truth was that Sherlock could most likely transform him into a frog any time he wanted to and he just might one day, for the sake of some insane experiment.

Luckily, Sherlock had long since emerged from his sea of boredom and was now looking around feverishly, his eyes ablaze and mind running at the speed of Rohan's best horse, judging by his rigid body. Twice John had seen this state already. It signalled that Sherlock was concentrating on nothing but thinking.

John's medical knowledge kicked rudely against his consciousness, reminding him to check Sherlock's breathing, which tended to stop at times of the highest mental concentration. This time seemed to be fine, though.

Just what was posing such a riddle to Sherlock?

''He was here. Still might be", Sherlock stated finally, returning to his normal state – which was strange enough already.

''What on Middle-Earth makes you say that?" John spun around again, feeling very much like a drunk dancer. Before him, the wooden huts lay still and innocent, without a soul to be seen. Half-expecting another intriguing deduction, half-sighing at the prospect of another inevitable, hefty portion of arrogance, John glanced at Sherlock and was profoundly confused when he didn't launch into a lengthy speech about his glorious wits and all the clues he had missed.

The answer was stunningly simple.

''I can feel it."

Sherlock Holmes relying on feelings, on intuition alone? John grinned despite the significance of the situation. Well, he supposed it was a grave one albeit the lack of information about the mentioned madman. Anyone able to draw runes like this just had to be considered as a dangerous individual.

''So, what are you going to do?", he inquired, having given up on ever getting any input about the stranger from Sherlock.

As if he had been waiting for his dramatic entry, a tall, lean and elfishly fair man stepped out of a hut, spotting and approaching them with a formal smile stuck on his lips.

''Oh, Mycroft!", John greeted, genuinely surprised. ''What a coincidence to meet you here!"

With a warm smile, filled with affection, John closed the distance between them and – with regard to the Elven culture he quickly abandoned the idea of hugging Mycroft – shook the other's hand with both of his. The formality of Mycroft's smile vanished until it was a real one. Soon, he regained his stiff manner again and, composed, looked at Sherlock, his face unreadable again. Honestly, if he spent another week surrounded by people with the countenance of a walnut he was going to smash everything into tiny bits. Preferably with Sting. Or his face might turn into something equal to a silver plate – flat, and only reflecting the outside or whatever the onlooker wished to see. In his case, he would probably resemble his worn and old cooking pot.

''Sherlock", Mycroft said with an arrogantly and strangely familiar raised eyebrow.

''Mycroft", the wizard acknowledged with the smallest of nods, and then John realized why Mycroft's behaviour had seemed odd to him. Sherlock's eyebrow climbed up his forehead in the very same conceited manner.

''You know each other?" Barely able to conceal his smile upon his discovery, he decided it might finally be time for a proper conversation.

''Indeed we do", Mycroft conceded, still looking at Sherlock with a, by now rather well-known, analytical glare, which, John was sure, reached into the depths of the soul, even into the dusty and mouldy cupboards everyone had preferred to lock up and throw the key far, far away. Once again, the striking resemblance made John smirk. It was like watching two cats trying to stare each other down. Next up would be.. the verbal battle.

''Better than I'd like to", Sherlock added.

''Oh, what would Mother say to this? Her boy seems to have grown into a rude, barbaric savage with no manners."

''Just without the hindrance of formalities, Mycroft, which make you as flexible as the marble your halls are built with. And just as boring." With undisguised disgust on his face, Sherlock wrinkled his nose in disapproval, while Mycroft shook his head with a disappointed and exasperated expression.

John giggled.

Both men turned to face him, almost having forgotten his existence, but apparently glad to have a distraction from their ritualised bickering.

''Oh, please excuse my manners, John, and Sherlock's as well, since he surely is too stubborn to ever admit a fault."

''That is simply because I am never wrong, Mycroft, stop indulging yourself in delusions", Sherlock shot back and both glared daggers at each other.

It was a first for John seeing an Elf utilizing something approaching sarcasm in manner of speaking. More than that, even letting mere words get under his skin. Admittedly, those were Sherlock's words, a man with a special skill for driving everyone and anything up the trees, which seemed to be apply to Elves as well.

Despite all the fun he was having, John decided it was time to change the direction of this discussion – or rather, the infinite loop of quarrelling these two were utterly immersed in.

''_How _did you meet?"

''That is irrelevant-", Sherlock started, interrupted by an almost triumphant Mycroft.

''He is my foster brother, and has been raised in Rivendell since he was small."

A sour look crept onto on Sherlock's otherwise impassive face at that statement.

''It's not like I had a choice, back then." Indignation filled every syllable of his words.

''That is true, dear brother, as we were the only ones able to bear your mood-swings." Mycroft steadily regained his elfish manner and waved his hand, gesturing them to follow him. ''I forgot my manners again. Sherlock does tend to have such an effect on me", an apologetically smile followed his sentence as they approached one of the huts, with the door ajar, hanging rather loosely on two rusty hinges.

Creaking ominously, the wood was suspiciously close to giving in to each of their steps. Feeling uneasy, John stopped and glanced around. There was nearly no interior, apart from a rustic table and two equally rough chairs, posing the question which purpose this hut actually served. Most of all, why someone like Mycroft was staying in a place like this.

Eyebrows raised in a silent question, he looked at Sherlock, who had still not finished pouting and refused to answer in any way, let alone explain what was going on.

''I suppose you know what I am about to ask of you, anyway", Mycroft spoke up and continued walking, until he stood in the middle of the small hut. Bending forward, he smoothly and effortlessly lifted a previously perfectly hidden trap door.

''After you, my dear friend." He gestured into the gaping darkness. ''You seem to have gotten yourself involved into another adventure."

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><p>AN (nosy, aren't I? XD): I'm curious! What did you like/dislike? Anything that made you want to smash your screen or hug it, maybe?

I don't bite :)


	7. The Deduction of Dwarves

A/N: A huge, fluffy thanks for all those who decided to follow this story AND stick with it (seeing as I haven't updated in half an eternity, blame RL). Awesome followers are awesome!

Also, I obviously don't own anything apart from my own madness.

Once again, any kind of review/feedback is loved fiercly!

But now, sit back and enjoy~

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><p>Contrary to what they had announced, the Elves had not left Middle-Earth. A group of a considerable size had stayed behind, slowly but steadily rebuilding the villages previously lost to Sauron's army, regaining their magic as well as their political powers - neither of those were to be underestimated.<p>

As for their reason to stay in such an utterly devastated world... many mere mortals had dared to question their motives in the past ten years, some with purely political reasons, other out of sheer and very human curiosity. All of them had gotten the same gentle and slightly patronizing smile, accompanied by silence in response. Considering how cryptic their everyday talk was already, this might have been the best for everyone involved.

Apart from Mycroft, and a few of his friends, all gathered at the crucial meeting in Rivendell, John hadn't interacted with Elves much. He assumed they were all very much like the tall, blonde man, who would hide his intelligence and rarely spoke up. If he did, though, people stopped what they were doing, their brain frozen and their eyes glued to lips speaking words that, at best times, only had double meaning. When in a bad mood, Mycroft somehow managed to include a whole continent into his sentences, causing the others to gape at him, before they finally resumed what they had done before, pretending to be temporarily deaf.

To make it short, they were ideal politicians. Witty and wise, their gentle manners betraying the enormous power each one of them possessed.

Never for one second had John doubted that they were perfectly aware of this.

Accustomed to surprises to a extent that allowed him to maintain his calm appearance, John followed Mycroft thorough endless, poorly lit passages, soon getting lost in this maze, whereas Mycroft never hesitated at any turn. There were plain, thick candles approximately each twenty metres, but without the torch Mycroft had picked up after the first turn, they'd be hopelessly stumbling and walking into each other.

The walls were rough, artless, and every few steps Mycroft and Sherlock had to avoid meeting face to stone with a stalactite hanging dangerously low. All of this was quite astonishing, as Sherlock had claimed Rinn to play big role in the politics of the world. On the outside, it was reasonable to keep the huts poorly decorated, but the complete lack of effort down here was truly striking. It reminded John of Baldur, the dwarf of the fellowship. He had told many stories of the mines to all those who wanted to hear it. Even to the unwilling ones. _Especially_ to those. Thanks to these unwanted lessons John was able to recognize this as the work of dwarves - _they_ didn't need to worry about hitting their head on anything sticking out from the ceiling. At least not at that height, which was the exact reason their tunnels were rather huge considering their body size.

It also meant that this tunnel had been here for half an eternity and John was getting a headache just from trying to wrap his head around that realization. All this time, politics had been made here, of all places? Except for the time Sauron had attempted to conquer Middle-Earth, forcing the humans, elves and dwarves to come out into the light, work together, attempting to overcome centuries of prejudices in a few weeks.

Apparently these traditions had not been forgotten and the undying habit of secrecy had been taken up again.

John tried to make out Sherlock's expression, but there were a myriad of shadows dancing over his face, turning it into a demonic mask, with eyes gleaming in a dangerous fashion. Seeing the wizard like this, John felt a wave of loneliness sweep him away to the faraway land of doubt and self-pity he had hoped to have left behind forever. All of sudden, he noticed that, if he ever asked Sherlock how far he would go to make the boredom go away, he wasn't sure what the answer would be. The man next to him had the potential to be a selfless saint, but so far had only shown the behaviour of a selfish brat. In any case, he was potentially dangerous, with his uncanny abilities, his sharp mind and mood swings equal to those of a notorious drunk. To round up the picture, Sherlock had met with a even more suspicious individual than himself, which was quite the accomplishment, and, despite the danger he had been and might still be in, hadn't told John anything about the man.

Not exactly the foundation for trust.

Why were these tunnels so endless? Did the politicians long for exercise before and after the gatherings, or was their small group currently led down the visitor route, created with the sole purpose of tormenting and exhausting overly curious people? Whichever was true, the more time John spent in this half-darkness with laughing shadows everywhere and somehow, always hiding at the corner of his eyes, the more paranoid and irritated he became.

That, and he started to feel his legs. But he chose not do dwell on that.

Mycroft was unaffected in his elvenly way, while Sherlock seemed to be the human counterpart: _Still _brimming with energy and walking with stride. Whereas John was.. hobbitting slightly behind, having to take three steps for each of Sherlock's and, as a result, looking utterly ridiculous compared to these tall men. Doubting his relationship with Sherlock wasn't benefitting his pace either, and eventually he gave up, letting the distance between them grow. A tad grumpy, he wondered if either of them would even notice if he went missing, then he decided the truthful answer to that would drag his mood down to the depths of hell and thus, settled for the version where the two sent out search parties just for him.

That wasn't working either.

Finally, there was the hint of light at the end of the tunnel and the faint promise of life. With the stalactites hanging down from the ceiling, John was reminded of a dragon's jaw, wide open to lure in innocent visitors.

At times, there where whispers, traces of conversations to remain utterly secret. John felt strange approaching the cave. He had never been fond of secrecy, not when it came to politics. Although he had understood the necessity to keep the fellowship hidden at all costs as long as possible, he did not see the need for such measures now. Frowning, he reflected on the mixed feels in his stomach and came to the conclusion that he hated clandestine meetings such as these, because ultimately, they would lead to intrigues and rivalry, which in turn would weaken the fresh bond between the races. Back in the days, precious time had been wasted with petty accusations and distrust of each other, when action had been crucial.

Hobbits were very easy-going people, but this one hadn't had a decent meal nor a decent conversation for days and was becoming increasingly irritated.

Upon entering the vast and intimidatingly spacious cave - he had no other word for a giant chamber under the earth such as this - he was greeted with a fierce hug, a bone-breaking pat on his shoulders and several loud voices at once.

"John!", a familiar voice boomed, joined by several others at the same time, making it impossible to distinguish where one greeting ended and the other started. It was a long, conglomerated word, sounding awkwardly like "Heoodihoarloee", which left John confused for a second. After a little undecided blinking and shifting to another foot, he decided to toss formalities aside and just returned the greeting hug for hug, a grin as bright as a Shire's sunrise on his face, growing with each familiar friend he spotted, until he was positively beaming, radiating a happiness that seemed to fill the priorly dark and damp room with sparks of contentment.

Such were the effects of a happy Hobbit.

Whereas Sherlock's face rivalled the gloom Of Mount Doom itself with every exchange. Obviously he had planned on making a grand entrance, showing off and generally make himself look mysterious. After pondering his options for a few seconds, he decided to cloak himself in secrecy instead, saving at least a bit of his grace. It would be very unwise to remark that his face looked as if he had bitten into some particularly sour fruit, so that will be left unsaid, naturally.

As he spotted the wizard's expression, though, John couldn't help but snicker at the face Sherlock was making, resulting in a shift of the much wanted attention.

Finally, Sherlock thought and resumed his arrogant sneering before they thought he could actually _talk_ to him. Not that anyone would have been able to hold his interest for long enough to call it a conversation. Except for John, he added for reasons unclear to him. He would have to analyse that thought later. Thoroughly. _Very _thoroughly. The mere idea of becoming attached to that Hobbit made his heart do strange leaps, which could only be unhealthy and were most likely only a sign of disgust or horror. He hated guessing things, but since this feeling was a first for him, he had to set up a theory and test it, this was how magic and alchemy worked, after all. Logic was something to rely on.

Sherlock decided to eliminate the possible reasons for his body's unnatural behaviour while he was in the meeting halls. Not only did he feel a strong urge to smoke his pipe in here, mainly because it was forbidden, the overly friendly manner of the dwarves irritated him and made him want to set something on fire. Preferably the leaves in his pipe. Vicious cycle here.

Naturally, all of this great piece of mind had been forged in a few second, which left plenty of time to deduce something about the dwarves and the reason his assistance - who were they kidding, he was doing everything on his own, nothing could be left to the idiots surrounding him - in this very underground chamber. Deducing dwarves, however, was as sensible as taming sheep, since every little thing that happened to them throughout the day had been engraved on their foreheads, stuck to their clothes in a way that the sheer abundance of information was screaming at Sherlock, making him feel slightly dizzy from the overload. Quickly, he gathered himself, smoothed his already perfect coat so it would willow around him.

''Show me the body", he demanded, earning twelve dumbstruck expressions from the dwarves, a fond sigh from Mycroft and an inscrutable expression from John. The mysteries concerning this Hobbit just kept accumulating. By now, Sherlock would need an entire day to figure everything out to his contentment, without any disturbances. Of course, it was when when he actually needed time off, for once not drowning in the vast sea of boredom slowly becoming a mindless fish, he ended up with a case sending thrills through his entire body, humming with too much energy. Later, later he would solve the mystery that was John Watson.

If he survived the excruciating stupidity of the people around him.

"What, how did you know there was a body?, spoke Baldur.

"A dead one, on top of that", added Derg, his brother, quite uselessly.

"Did someone tell you?", another dwarf asked.

"Mycroft must have told him everything already." Again, one of the other dwarves.

"That's a pity."

"No storytelling, then."

"You shouldn't look forward to telling tales of someone not even properly buried."

"It wouldn't be tales. More like, a real story."

"Isn't that what tales are? Just.. a little more bloomy."

"Everyone, _shut up_!" Sherlock shouted and reeled in the ensuing, stunned silence, which he most definitely wasn't going to cut with a knife. Wiser this time, he directed the question towards Mycroft, still lingering in some elvishly sublime way at the entrance, whose usual polite mask had cracked slightly to reveal something akin to amused fondness, only infuriating Sherlock even more. How dare he look down on him? Even put him in the same room with those.. simpletons?

Before he had the chance to rant, complain or even deduce something truly embarrassing, a soft voice interceded all attempts at thoroughly pissing off the Elf.

"Mycroft, I think you should fill us in on what happened while we're going to the corpse, alright?" It should have been alerting, worrisome, how swiftly everyone complied. The dwarves stilled, Mycroft smiled slightly, nodding and motioning for them to follow him, and, worst of all, Sherlock _actually _doing so, with less grace than usual, as if his brain and body hadn't fully come to an agreement yet.

All due to the gentleness of that confusing Hobbit, as if he had known how and most importantly why Sherlock had been stressed, with all the unnecessary input, his impatience and confusion just adding oil to the fire. It had been very much like applying soothing balm to cuts, like he remembered Mycroft often doing when they had been kids, or rather, when he had been a reckless brat and Mycroft an awkward teenager. The invoked memory caused a way too comfortable warmth to spread inside of him, so he tried to distract himself by focussing solely on his surroundings.

Barely formed tunnels, even rougher than the ones they had walked through before, while they got uncharacteristically wide for dwarf-made ones. As the height of the ceiling increased with every step as well, Sherlock concluded that this must have been the ancient parts of the whole labyrinth-system, built by a race that has been rumoured to have been the first in this world, until they perished. At least, most believed them to be, Sherlock thought otherwise and had developed his own theory how they had split into three different tribes, eventually becoming what they are now: Humans, dwarves and Elves. Not that anyone would ever listen to him, let along open their limited horizon enough to consider that theory.

Advancing further into the darkness only lit by one meagre torch, Mycroft spoke up.

"His name was Holdir, an important representative of the Mythrill-Mines. His reason for being here is unknown to us. I was the one to discover his.. remains as I was on my way to the well, whose existence is known only by a few and its power accessible to even fewer. Only magicians of a rank equal to me would have a reason for trying to find their way to it. I suppose you know the well's effects on the user?"

"Of course", Sherlock said instantly, but couldn't resist showing off if only a little, "its effects are rumoured to be immortality, knowledge and strength, the extent of its power depends on the skill of the user."

"Exactly", Mycroft nodded sagely, ,,that is the cause for my astonishment. What could have possibly driven Holdir down these sacred halls?"

"There are 14 possible answers to that question so far, I'll have to see the body to narrow down the results", Sherlock promptly replied, mind instantly filled with his very own labyrinth of clues he has gathered so far, not yet leading to a satisfying conclusion.

However, all his senses refocussed as they turned around the corner, assessing the scene before him.

Holdir's remains had been burnt to no recognition, even the battle axe - apparently he hadn't been fighting - had melted, coating the upper half of his back, the rest pooling around the fallen body. Dwarves usually wore leather, but if Holdir had worn any, it had become ash, much like most parts of his body.

"How did you know it was Holdir at all?" John asked in horror laced with genuine interest. He was a doctor, after all.

"I know a spell that can identify.. cases such as these", Mycroft responded simply.

Sherlock gestured for them to be silent, and thankfully the echoes disappeared from the walls. A few steps next to the body the ash was smeared, leaving behind something that resembled a footprint, but closer examination revealed the imprint to be from a kind of paw.. one with sharp claws and too huge for any beast, considering the height of the upper tunnels. Altough.. Sherlock turned around sharply, dusting enclosing him in the motion, settling on his coat.

More steps to the opposite direction,, a bit to the left... and yes, there it was. With his long, thin fingers he reached out, touching the spot where a bit of stone had crumbled off. Effortlessly, he mumbled the fitting spell, feeling the stone heat under him, until it was almost melting. Eyes closed, he took no notice of the stone nearly burning up, and instead let his mind be flooded with images. When he opened them again, his victorious grin was infectious.

"Whatever Holdir had intended to do here, it woke a creature better left sleeping." A dramatic pause, earning him an exasperated sigh from both men ruining the moment, then he continued.

"A dragon, Mycroft. Very old, and, I believe, _very_ angry."


End file.
